


Unstealable (you've got the key)

by dishonestdreams



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Friends to Lovers, Leather Kink, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: Ryan and Spencer have been doing this long enough that Ryan doesn’t need to ask.  They’re probably not really that normal, because when Spencer says girls, Ryan’s first thoughts aren’t about soft curves and sweet perfumes, they’re about gleaming wheel trims and sleek bumpers.Whatever.  Ryan’s pretty sure normal is over-rated anyway.
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Spencer Smith
Comments: 15
Kudos: 10





	Unstealable (you've got the key)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/gifts).

> So, for reasons that are lost to the mists of time, I threw this line of dialogue at MistressKat: _“Look, I know we’ve been friends for fucking ever and I really don’t want to screw that up, but you’ve got to know, I can’t stop thinking about how fucking pretty you’d look on your knees.”_
> 
> Write me a drabble, I said.
> 
> Write me a ficlet, she countered.
> 
> She wrote a hundred words. I...may have gotten carried away. I regret everything.
> 
> This is inspired by _Gone in 60 Seconds_, but other than riffing on a couple of scenes, I ignored the movie plot (so you don't need to have seen it for the fic to make sense).
> 
> Huuuuuuuuuuuuge thank yous to pushkin666 for her super-helpful feedback on an early draft, and to moth2fic for stepping up to the beta mark at short notice and providing both her thoughtful comments and her superlative (and frankly quite terrifying) eye for detail to pick up on all my mistakes. They're amazing, they have both made this better than it was, and any remaining mistakes/rubbish bits are 100% me.

Spencer shows up at his door at ten in the morning, his eyes hidden behind an old pair of aviators with coffee in one hand and waffles in the other. Ryan blinks at him sleepily, because ten in the morning is still _in the morning_, and he’s not really been awake that long. 

“Get dressed,” Spencer says, “I heard on the wire that there’s three gorgeous girls in town for the weekend, and Zack’s got a guy, thinks we ought to pick them up and give them a little tour.”

“I was sleeping,” Ryan says, muzzily because he _was_. Had been. Whatever. Spencer grins at him, and Ryan swallows down the flutter it sparks in his chest unthinkingly. 

“Get dressed,” Spencer says again, but he holds Ryan’s coffee out like a peace offering. “You can sleep when you’re dead.”

*****

Spencer doesn’t _literally_ mean that there are three girls in Vegas just waiting for him and Ryan to pick them up.

Ryan’s been hanging out with Spencer since he was six years old. It’s been a long time and he doesn’t really recall a lot about that first meeting, but what he does remember, with startling, painful clarity, is Spencer’s smile. The curve of his lips; bright and brilliant and edged with a mischief that was matched by the gleam in his eye is something that’s indelibly inscribed in Ryan’s memory. Ryan had looked at that smile, and he’d known (even then, when he was too young to understand what it really meant) that he’d do whatever it took to keep Spencer smiling at him like that.

Which, really, is why Ryan’s been boosting cars with Spencer since he was sixteen years old. It had all come from a required work placement in the summer of Spencer’s freshman year (and Spencer can deny it until he’s blue in the face, but Ryan distinctly remembers _months_ of bitching after the announcement had been made just before Thanksgiving). Spencer had been pretty into machinery and Spencer’s dad had known a guy, who had a friend, who had a few less than upstanding contacts, one of whom had owned a garage. Not that Spencer’s dad had known about the less than upstanding part, but that hadn’t mattered. Spencer had worked for Zack (“_slave_ labour, Ryan! I thought this country had moved on from that!”) for the mandated two weeks, and whatever Zack had seen in that fortnight had clearly impressed him, because at the end of it, he’d called Spencer into the back office and made him an offer.

Ryan remembers the night Spencer had told him; huddled together under the comforter on Spencer’s single bed, which was really too small to hold two teenage boys, even if one of them was Ryan. Spencer’s tone had been hushed, but Ryan hadn’t been able to miss the reverence in how he talked about the chop shop hidden behind the honest façade of Zack’s garage. His eyes had shone in the brightness of the flashlight, as he’d described the sleek beauty of the stolen cars that filtered through, appearances made over and plates and serial numbers filed away under Zack’s watchful eye, and Ryan had _wanted_ so badly to see what Spencer saw, what set that half-smile dancing across his lips.

Spencer had taken Ryan to meet Zack the next day. Ryan had been fucking terrified; worried that Zack wasn’t going to like him, that he was going to say or do something stupid and get himself shot (or worse), that Spencer was going to move onto this new thing without him. Zack had looked at him though, a long, considering look that had made Ryan squirm, and then he’d nodded, told Spencer to make sure Ryan understood the rules and that had been it. Ryan had been in (Spencer told him later that he’d sold Zack on the idea that Ryan had ideal hands for delicate work inside an engine; it turned out slim wrists and long fingers were not common among car thieves).

Ryan can believe that. He’s pretty sure he would never have volunteered to be a car thief on his own.

He remembers their first boost like it was yesterday; a ’99 Bentley Azure in a deep, burgundy that made Ryan think of old blood and expensive wine. Spencer had been behind the wheel, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm and half a smile on his face when he glanced at Ryan, while the tyres ate up the tarmac as they sped into the desert. Spencer’s smile hadn’t dimmed over the years; still as bright and as brilliant as Ryan remembered from their childhood, but that early mischief had shifted by then to something darker; a wicked edge that had tended to make Ryan’s breath catch if Spencer caught him unprepared. 

It still does. Ryan can’t smile like Spencer does, and he wonders sometimes why Spencer keeps _him_ around, but mostly he just thinks that that smile has a lot to do with why he’s still here, boosting cars with Spencer six years down the line. 

But yeah. Ryan and Spencer have been doing this long enough that Ryan doesn’t need to ask. They’re probably not really that normal, because when Spencer says girls, Ryan’s first thoughts aren’t about soft curves and sweet perfumes, they’re about gleaming wheel trims and sleek bumpers.

Whatever. Ryan’s pretty sure normal is over-rated anyway.

*****

“If there’s three ladies, why only two of us?” Ryan asks, once he’s settled into the passenger seat of Spencer’s Explorer (and it will never stop being fucking hilarious to him that Spencer’s ride of choice is a mid-range SUV). He’s still tired enough that he needs to concentrate to make sure he gets it right. Zack has an elaborate code to keep them safe when they’re talking about a job, just in case the wrong ears are listening, and he’s pretty insistent that they use it. It’s always ‘ladies’ or ‘girls’, never ‘cars’, while what Ryan and Spencer do is ‘boost’ or ‘pick up’, never ‘steal’ and that’s barely scratching the surface of how Zack expects them to talk. Half the time, Ryan loses track of what he’s thinking about when they’re working, let alone what he’s being told. Every time he stumbles over his words, every time the wrong syllables slip out, he wonders if he’s getting too old for this shit.

Spencer shoots him a glance. “They’ve got diverse interests,” he says, and it takes Ryan a second to interpret that he means that the cars are in different places. “We’re going to need to collect them one at a time and bring them together. Brendon and Jon are gonna be manning the meet-up spot; they’ll look after the ones we’ve already picked up.”

Ryan nods, relief coursing through him and leaving him jittery in its wake. He hates the group boosts. Vegas pulls in a wide range of weekend visitors, and it’s not often they hit up a group, but it does happen. The long, open desert roads have an appeal that’s utterly unique to a fast car, and the rallies can bring in some unique beauties. They also bring unique risks; Jon likes them, but if Ryan never had to hit up another rally again, it would still be too soon.

“Who are we picking up?” he asks, and he doesn’t watch the way that Spencer’s fingers flex on the steering wheel.

“Nadine,” Spencer says, a dreamy edge to his voice. “Lydia. And Kathryn.”

Ryan whistles low, impressed despite himself. Zack’s got a codename for every model of car he’s willing to bring through his chop shop and they’re all, without exception, girls’ names. Ryan can’t keep the list of which name links to which car in his head the way that Spencer can. He knows that Spencer would be able to tell him not only the make and model, but also the year that links each of those names but even without Spencer’s encyclopaedic knowledge, he’s relatively sure that Nadine is a classic Ferrari, and that Kathryn comes from Aston Martin. He _thinks_ Lydia is a Porsche. All high end. All fucking expensive.

“Someone has their eye on some classy ladies,” he comments, and, just for a second, Spencer turns that dreamy look on him, hot eyes and parted lips, and Ryan can’t _breathe_. Then Spencer winks, and the moment’s gone.

“Yeah,” he says, “It’s usually us.”

*****

Zack’s deep in conversation with a guy Ryan doesn’t recognise when Spencer pulls into the chop shop, and he nods them straight through to the back. Spencer nods back without smiling, just an acknowledgment, and catches hold of Ryan’s elbow to guide him through as they weave their way between the legitimate cars in various stages of deconstruction. Ryan doesn’t take it personally; he has form for mishaps in the workshop and he focuses instead on avoiding the engine parts scattered across the floor. He pointedly doesn’t think about the heat he can feel through his shirt where Spencer’s fingers are pressing firmly against his skin.

There are three burner cars waiting in the back area, and Ryan tugs free from Spencer’s hold, bypassing the Toyota and the Honda to run his fingers gently down the chassis of the Chevy. She’s his favourite; a lumbering old girl whose engine grumbles and groans like she resents being dragged from her well-earnt retirement every time he turns her over, and whose ripped and tattered leather seats make him wonder what stories she could tell if she could speak.

He’s taken to decorating her in their downtime. Just swirls in the paint to start with, but he’d soon graduated to more complicated designs; flowers and birds and constellations which start on the hood and trail in wandering, aimless patterns all over the bodywork to match the ones he likes to trail down his own face. He hadn’t expected the patterns to keep; Zack likes his cars to be non-descript. Ryan’d spent the first few days painting and repainting, refining and improving on his memories of yesterday’s designs over a hood that had been consistently wiped clean. Then he’d walked in one day to find his work from the previous day intact. He’d asked Zack about it, but Zack had just shrugged and warned him not to get too attached.

Ryan hadn’t missed the way he’d glanced at Spencer first though.

A soft jingle behind him catches his attention, and he turns. Spencer’s watching him, his eyes oddly soft, and he has a set of plates in one hand and the Chevy’s keys in his other. When he catches Ryan’s eye, he gives a lopsided smile and holds out the keys. “Want to take her out before Zack moves her on?”

Ryan _does_, but he shoots Spencer a quizzical look. “Isn’t she a little obvious?” he asks.

Spencer’s smile turns a little sharp, and he steps a little closer, reaching out to ghost his thumb over the birds tracking down Ryan’s cheek. “Who’s gonna see her when you’ve hidden her so prettily?” he says sweetly and tosses Ryan the keys.

Ryan fumbles the catch.

*****

“C’mon Spence,” Jon’s tone is entirely reasonable, but Ryan doesn’t need to look to know how Spencer’s frown has deepened, his eyes narrowing and lines creasing across his forehead.

“No,” Spencer says, “We’ve talked about this. It’s too risky.”

Jon hums. “This whole gig is risky, Spence. You really want to tell me that drawing it out isn’t worse?”

Ryan tunes them out, rubbing his thumb across the bridge of his nose and wonders if he has time to grab another coffee while Jon and Spencer hash this out. It’s almost ritualistic, he thinks; they always scope the ladies before they boost them (Zack’s drilled into them again and again the importance of preparation) but when they only have a weekend, there’s no time for shadow games, misdirection or diversions, so they have to work fast. Spencer’s preference is always to scope on a Friday, leave a window for contingencies and collect on a Saturday, if he can. Jon doesn’t like the delay; he thinks it ups the risk of discovery and he’d rather be finished and gone before anyone has time to realise a boost is on.

They have this same argument every time. Ryan’s always _here_ but he’s never held a strong enough opinion to get involved. When he’s paired with Spencer (and he’s almost always paired with Spencer), Spencer leads.

“Ryan?” Jon asks, and Ryan stares at him blankly, because he hasn’t been listening and he has no idea what Jon’s asking him for. Brendon, who Ryan thought had also been ignoring the whole discussion in favour of doing whatever the fuck he’s doing on his cell, lets out a laugh that’s rich with genuine amusement.

“Ryan agrees with Spencer,” he sing-songs and Jon reaches over and smacks him lightly across the back of the head. “Hey!” Brendon says, and he fixes Jon with an indignant glare. “I’m just saying it how it is!”

Ryan shrugs. Brendon might be obnoxious at times, but he’s not _wrong_. Ryan’s experience says if he follows Spencer, it’ll work out alright. He doesn’t really want to fuck with their good karma.

Jon sighs resignedly, but there’s no real rancour to it. “I have no idea why I bother. Fine, Spence, you win. S’your show.”

Spencer smirks.

*****

The recon goes off without a hitch and all their ladies are exactly where they’re expected to be. Kathryn and Lydia are both in hotel parking lots, and Spencer checks the exit routes, while Ryan reviews the security. He’s pretty au fait with the camera layouts and security rotations in most of the parking lots in Vegas, so it’s mostly just being sure that there won’t be any unpleasant surprises waiting for them, while Spencer plans a route to keep them out of the electronic eyes as much as he can.

Nadine’s at a private villa, shrouded in darkness, and Spencer drives them up there, ghosting the last half-mile with lights out and the engine running as quiet as he can keep her. Security’s non-existent; this place clearly relies on its isolation to keep its residents property safe, and Ryan would roll his eyes, but he’s too busy being grateful there are no dogs.

Spencer’s still got the scar from the last time they ran into dogs. Ryan still gets the nightmares. Ryan fucking hates dogs when they’re working.

“Piece of cake,” Spencer murmurs. “Let’s check her out.”

Ryan slips out of the car with a nod. It’s been a while since he boosted a classic Ferrari and he’d really like to refresh his memory on their alarm system, so he heads to the hood, dropping to his knees, so he can get a look at her underbelly. He likes the alarms on these older cars; more patterns of wires than electronics, beautiful tangles of red and yellow and green that speak to him, and he reaches out with one finger to trace a reverent touch along the smooth plastic. 

Spencer’s waiting behind him when he pulls back, his face in shadow, but his attention clearly focused on Ryan rather than the car, palpable as a touch. Ryan leans back on his heels and gives him a questioning look. “What?”

“We good?” Spencer asks, and there’s an unusual gravel under his whisper that sends a shiver down Ryan’s spine that he resolutely ignores.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, and then he gives a small smile. “I like these old cars,” he confesses.

Even through the shadows he can see the way Spencer’s face shifts to reflect his smile. “I know,” Spencer says, and he holds out his hand to help Ryan to his feet. “They suit you.”

Ryan blinks. “Are you calling me old?” he says, and Spencer huffs out a quiet laugh. The moon shifts from behind a cloud, and Spencer’s eyes glitter in the sudden flood of light.

“Classic, Ryan,” he says. “You’re a classic.”

*****

They crash out at Ryan’s when it’s late enough to be early, and too early to be late. Ryan’s is the obvious choice, because Spencer’s neighbours are nosy fuckers, and Ryan’s place is small but it’s quiet.

“I’ll take the couch,” Spencer says with a yawn, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be a dick,” he says, because they go through this ritual every time, and Spencer has _never_ slept on Ryan’s couch. Ryan’s pretty sure _no-one_ has ever slept on that couch; he picked it up cheap from a garage sale and it’s fucking uncomfortable. He should replace it, really.

He’ll get around to it. Probably.

“Fine,” Spencer says, “I’m too tired to argue with you; just keep your freaky cold feet to yourself.”

Every fucking time. “Your obsession with my feet is starting to border on creepy.”

Spencer shrugs. “Whatever, dude. You live in the desert. No-one who lives in the desert should have feet that cold.”

“Creepy,” Ryan says again, because he can. “Just get in there. I promise to keep all chilled extremities to myself for the duration, as long as we can go to _sleep_.”

The smile Spencer shoots over his shoulder as he heads into Ryan’s bedroom is small and tired, but genuine. He crooks his finger at Ryan, an unspoken _get your ass in here_ that Ryan knows all too well from years of sharing a room, and he doesn’t question it.

He goes.

*****

When he wakes up later, he’s cocooned in warmth. Spencer’s a line of heat against his back, his breath a warm wash over Ryan’s neck, and his arm is a deadweight slung across Ryan’s waist. Ryan shifts, involuntarily, and Spencer’s fingers curl in to tuck between Ryan’s hip and the mattress, holding him in place.

Ryan’s feet aren’t cold, but he shivers anyway.

*****

The second time he wakes up, it’s heading toward dark. Spencer’s gone, although if the sounds Ryan can hear from the other room are any indication, he’s not gone far.

By the time he stumbles through into the main room, dressed but not really awake, there’s coffee brewing and Spencer already has most of their kit sorted into piles on Ryan’s rickety old table. 

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Spencer says, with a teasing edge, and Ryan flips him off without comment as he makes a beeline for the coffee pot. The first cup is too bitter and too hot; biting on his tongue and scouring on his throat as he swallows it down too quickly, but it means that by the time he’s poured the second and turned to lean back against the kitchenette side, he’s actually starting to feel vaguely human.

“Where are your gloves?” Spencer asks and Ryan stares at him uncomprehendingly.

“Uh,” he says, because for one long, drawn-out second, he genuinely has no idea. Then he remembers where he’d dropped them the last time. “Dresser drawer. Second down, I think.”

Spencer’s gloves are already on the table, and Ryan finds his eyes drawn to them as Spencer disappears back into the bedroom. Tight fitting, gleaming leather that’s supple to every flex of Spencer’s hand and, Ryan knows from past experience, slide soft-smooth over every surface he touches. He has his own pair, but where Ryan’s are a deep, burnt brown that flicker through the shades of autumn with every gesture he makes, Spencer’s are a uniform jet black. He’s not really sure what that says about either of them.

“Ry?” Spencer says from the bedroom doorway, his voice unusually deep, and Ryan startles guiltily, even though he hadn’t been _doing_ anything. He glances over at Spencer, wide-eyed, and his gaze locks with Spencer’s for a second. There’s something intense in Spencer’s expression, although it’s closed off and Ryan can’t read it properly (and that’s not right, because Ryan has been able to read Spencer’s moods since they were _kids_). Then Spencer looks away. “You ready?” he asks.

Ryan just nods. He doesn’t quite trust his voice.

Spencer quirks a smile, but his eyes are distant. “Let’s ride then”

*****

The first two boosts go like a dream, Lydia and Kathryn safely tucked away in what seems like no time, and Ryan remembers that he doesn’t just do this for Spencer. Brendon’s a constant presence on the radio, trading insults and in-jokes with Spencer, but Ryan’s gotten quite practiced over the years on tuning out Brendon’s chatter and just focusing in when it matters. All that leaves him with is Spencer, the cars, and the high.

Ryan loves this. If the reckless, heady way Spencer grins at him after they’ve dropped Kathryn with Brendon and Jon is any indication, he’s not the only one.

The weirdness from earlier is gone, if it was ever really there. Ryan decides resolutely to _not think about it._

Jon runs them out for Nadine, dropping them around a half-mile from the villa, because Spencer hadn’t wanted any of Zack’s cars anywhere near this girl once they got her onto the road. The night is ideal for it, cloudless and with a full enough moon that they can get away with not using any other light source. Spencer eyes the options critically for a moment, before giving a nod toward the drive, and Ryan follows him as they hike silently up the track, keeping to the shadows as much as they can.

The villa’s quiet as they approach, with Nadine right where they left her. Spencer signals wordlessly for Ryan to head straight for the hood, and Ryan does, pulling his tools out as he goes. They’ve never had a job go so smoothly, and Ryan wonders, just idly, whether he’ll be able to convince Spencer to drop by Denny’s when they’re done. He’s always _hungry_ after a boost, and he’s pretty sure his apartment is short on anything resembling actual food.

The thought is clearly a jinx. The light in the main room of the villa flicks on, bright illumination streaming through the picture window to throw the car, and by extension Ryan and Spencer, into sharp relief.

Ryan freezes. Spencer doesn’t.

Ryan’s sweater bites painfully into his neck as he’s yanked down and back to land on the asphalt with a hard thump that jars through his spine and brings tears to his eyes. He thinks he would probably have cried out, because that fucking _hurt_, but Spencer’s already there. His hand clamps over Ryan’s face, the leather of his glove buttery-soft against Ryan’s mouth, and drags him backwards. Ryan ends up nestled between Spencer’s legs; one of Spencer’s hands curled over his hip, the other still pressing against his lips, holding his head back against Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer’s picked the perfect spot; the shadow of the car is shielding them from the view of anyone inside, but if Ryan shifts his head back and up, he has an unobstructed view of what’s happening in the villa through the windows of the car.

That said, given what’s happening inside, Ryan’s not sure they wouldn’t go unnoticed if they danced a naked can-can across the lawn, and when he hears Spencer suck in a sharp breath against his ear, he knows Spencer’s seen it as well. There’s a couple in the main room, but they’re paying no attention to the world outside; the woman is pressed against the glass of the window with her head tipped back, and the guy has his face buried against her throat, with one of his hands clearly visibly sliding up her thigh under her skirt.

“Fuck,” Spencer breathes, and Ryan hums an agreement from behind the press of Spencer’s fingers because, _yeah_, looks like. Neither of them is particularly his type, but he can’t deny they make a pretty picture, especially when his arm twists, his hand doing _something_ out of sight that makes her jerk, pushing her palm back against the window, fingers splayed. Ryan feels tension thrum through him like an electric shock, and he’s suddenly, _painfully_ aware of the press of Spencer’s body behind him. He curls his fingers against his thigh, and digs in hard, a dull ache radiating out across his skin from each contact point.

Ryan’s going to focus on that, and not on the heat of Spencer’s fingers against his hip, or the leathery scent that’s now indelibly linked with Spencer flooding his nostrils, or the fact that his jeans are starting to feel uncomfortably tight.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

The woman in the window moves, sudden and sharp, and brings her arms around the guy, tangling her fingers in his hair, and even from this distance, it’s easy to tell that she’s tugging. He resists for a moment before he lifts his head, his grin slow, wide and inviting as he looks at her. Then they’re kissing; messy and dirty and purposeful, and Spencer swallows, his hand slipping down from Ryan’s mouth to settle across his chest. Ryan’s mouth feels dry, and he echoes Spencer’s swallow.

Spencer shifts behind him, just a slight angling away that Ryan wouldn’t have noticed if they hadn’t been pressed quiet so close together. “Kinda hot, huh?” he says, and Ryan twitches.

“Not really my type,” he says, instinctively and Spencer huffs a soft laugh.

“Sure,” he drawls, and his fingers tap out a quick staccato beat against Ryan’s collarbone. “I can see that you’re completely unaffected by this.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, fighting back the embarrassment that threatens to wash over him, because it’s _okay_, Spencer doesn’t _know_. “People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, Spence.”

There’s an odd pause, just a fraction of a beat too long, before Spencer nods, his hair brushing against Ryan’s cheek. “Yeah, although…”

He trails off, and Ryan waits a second, then nudges back with his elbow. “What?”

“Nothing.” It’s a fucking lie; Spencer tenses up and gets a weird edge to his voice when he’s lying, and Ryan tamps down on the flutter of panic in his chest even through everything else at the idea that Spencer’s lying to _him_.

“Alright,” he says, his tone too bland, even as his pulse quickens, and Spencer sighs.

“Nothing to worry about,” he amends, “I was just thinking.”

That at least sounds honest. Ryan just nods, but there must be something that shifts in his body language, because Spencer squeezes his hip and relaxes back against him.

The couple are still kissing, although she has clearly been busy, because his shirt is now unbuttoned and half off his shoulders. Ryan watches as she reaches up, pressing her fingers briefly against his shoulders before she drags her nails down his chest, and he shivers, despite himself.

“Hey, Ry?” Spencer murmurs in his ear. There’s an edge to his voice, and Ryan turns his head just a fraction, lifting his chin in a silent question. 

“Which is hotter?” Spencer asks, his breath warm against Ryan’s skin. “Having sex, or boosting cars?” 

Ryan jerks, the question shocking through him like, and he covers it with an almost silent laugh. It’s what he _should_ do; laugh it off, maybe punch Spencer in the thigh, something _normal_. But he doesn’t. Ryan has no fucking idea what makes him do it; whether it’s the soured adrenaline from their near-miss frying his brain, some reckless impulse born from a weekend spent flaunting the rules, because he’s fucking _tired_ of all the things he never says or just the way that he’s fucking surrounded by _Spencer_, but it’s sure as hell not part of any conscious plan when he hears himself say, “What about having sex _while_ boosting cars?”

Behind him, Spencer stills, his fingers on Ryan’s hip tightening to the point of pain, and Ryan’s breath catches again in his throat and stays there. He feels frozen, balancing with Spencer on the edge of something he can’t define, and he can’t tell if the rapid-fire patter of his pulse is from anticipation or terror.

Spencer’s hand flexes slowly, a brief extra pressure that Ryan can’t believe won’t bruise, and Ryan hears him draw a slow, measured breath. Then the light flicks off and the moment is shattered.

“Time to work,” Spencer says, tightly, and then he’s moving, fast and quiet in the shadows. Ryan takes what feels like his first breath in hours and tells himself he’s not disappointed.

He’s _not_.

*****

“Pull over,” Ryan says, flatly.

Spencer shoots him a glance out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t slow down. He hasn’t said much since they’d left the villa, all his focus directed at the car, with Ryan almost feeling like an afterthought in a way he _never_ does with Spencer. Impromptu show aside, the pick up had gone perfectly; Ryan disabling the alarm system with an efficiency that had surprised even him, and by the time he’d crawled out from under the hood, Spencer had already been in the driving seat. They’d slipped out unnoticed, letting the gentle slope of the drive roll them away and down the track until they were far enough out to start the engine without drawing attention. Now though, they’ve been driving for ten minutes in a weighted, uncomfortable silence that’s grating on Ryan like nails down a chalkboard. There’s a wave of nausea that keeps trying to wash over every time he thinks about what’s crawled up Spencer’s ass and his mind keeps skittering away from focusing on it (he’s ignoring the nasty little voice at the back of his head that keeps suggesting he knows _exactly_ what – or _who_ \- the problem is) and he feels like he’s going to fly apart just from the fucking tension. Half of him wants to run, and the other half really wants to punch Spencer in the face.

It’s all fucked up.

Spencer seems to be pretending he hasn’t heard him, his eyes fixed firmly on the desert road ahead and Ryan _cannot fucking do this_. He scowls. “I swear to God, Spencer, pull _over_ or I’m getting out anyway.”

“We’re doing ninety” Spencer says, terribly reasonable and carefully blank, and Ryan’s hands curl into involuntary fists.

“I don’t care,” he says, resolutely, and he reaches for the door handle. The speed they’re moving makes it feel like he’s trying to push the door open through treacle, but he manages a reasonable crack before Spencer swears and jerks the wheel to the right, letting the car drift to a stop at the side of the road. 

“The _fuck_, Ryan?”

Ryan’s out before the wheels have fully stopped turning, stumbling as his feet hit the hard desert rock earlier than he’d expected. He rights himself with one hand on top of the car, and then he starts walking. Behind him, there’s the snick of a door opening and the crunch of quick footsteps in the dirt, and Ryan presses his lips together tightly. He’s not. He’s not fucking doing this. He _can’t_ fucking do this.

“Ryan?” Spencer’s _right there_, hot on his heels, and his fingers wrap round Ryan’s elbow, warm and unyielding. It’s more than enough to stop Ryan moving, pulling him back around enough that he can see Spencer in his peripheral vision. “What are you _doing_?”

“Going home,” Ryan says, with a deliberate edge of boredom, and he’s perversely proud that he keeps the tremor out of his voice. “Let go of me.”

“Yeah, no,” Spencer says, and he brings up his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes slipping closed for a second. “Vegas isn’t that way, Ryan.”

Oh. Ryan looks around, but they’re in the middle of the desert and it’s dark. He has no fucking idea where they are. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll go the other way.”

“Oh, for fuck-“ Spencer cuts himself off sharply. “We’re in the middle of a boost.”

“We’re at the end of a boost,” Ryan corrects, primly. “I’m pretty sure you can handle it from here.”

“_Ryan_,” Spencer says, but it comes out more of a growl, laced with warning and…something else that makes Ryan want to…to…fuck, he doesn’t even know _what_ he wants, but he wants something.. And he clearly _can’t_. Combined with the press of Spencer’s fingers, it sends a shiver down Ryan’s spine that isn’t entirely pleasant.

“Let go, Spence,” he says, again and _fuck_, his voice is nowhere near as steady as it was before. “It’s pretty clear you don’t want me here, so just… I don’t know, go do the thing.”

Spencer stills. “I don’t want you here?”

Ryan jerks ineffectually against Spencer’s hold. “That’s generally how I interpret being fucking _ignored_, yes,” he says tightly, and Spencer’s fingers dig harder into his elbow. Then Spencer tugs, pulling Ryan off balance, and there’s a brief, dizzying second when he thinks he’s going to faceplant into the dirt. But Spencer’s still _there_, and Ryan barely has time to think it before Spencer’s steadying him by catching Ryan’s other arm with his free hand.

“Tell me something,” Spencer says, something sharp and…dangerous in his tone that makes the hairs rise on the back of Ryan’s neck and he presses forward into Ryan’s space, leaving Ryan little choice other than to step backward to match. “When you suggested having sex while boosting cars, who did you think about?”

Ryan stumbles over the next step. “No-one,” he lies, but he can’t bring himself to look at Spencer when he does, and he stares instead at the ground by Spencer’s left foot.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Spencer says flatly, and Ryan panics a little, flailing against Spencer’s hold, which gets him precisely nowhere. “I thought about you.”

“I-“ Ryan just stops; stops moving and stops speaking and almost stops breathing. He cuts himself off so sharply that he bites his tongue, with a sharp sting that’s followed by a coppery tang in his mouth, and it’s distracting enough that he forgets not to look at Spencer. Spencer’s expression is dark, simmering anger tightly reined in in a way that Ryan’s never seen before and has no fucking idea how to respond to, and for a moment he just stares. “What?”

“I thought about you,” Spencer says, again, and he holds Ryan still, stopping him from taking another step backwards as he steps into Ryan’s space. This close Ryan can smell him, a heady mix of spice and sweat that makes his mouth water, and he flexes his fingers uselessly. Spencer’s eyes glitter and he leans in, his nose brushing against Ryan’s cheek, as he whispers. “It’s always you, Ryan. I never fucking stop thinking about you. I couldn’t ignore you if I _wanted_ to.”

There’s a bite in his voice that runs contrary to his words, that makes Ryan think that maybe he _does_ want to, but it’s the words themselves that catch him. What Spencer’s saying, what he’s _suggesting_, it _can’t_ be true but that doesn’t stop it from being like fuel to the fire that goes coursing through Ryan’s veins, and settles in his chest like a burning ember, suffocating and painful. He draws in a shaky, shallow breath that doesn’t feel enough to fill his lungs.

“_Jesus_, Spence.” Fuck, he’s pretty sure his words don’t usually come out this breathy. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” He means it to come out as a question, but it sounds more like an accusation, and Spencer growls, jerking back enough to look Ryan directly in the eye.

“What I-“ Spencer cuts himself off with a harsh, humourless bark of a laugh, and the look he gives Ryan is practically livid. “Do you have any fucking idea what _you_ do to _me_? We have been best friends for fucking years and every day, Ryan, every fucking day I look at you and I _want_. I look at you and I can’t stop myself from thinking about, about all sorts of shit. Like how fucking pretty you’d look on your knees. For me.”

They hang in the air, those words, that _confession_, venomous and heavy and smothering, and Ryan’s shaking under the weight of them. For one fleeting, crazy moment he wonders if they’re going to be stuck like this, locked into this one moment of tension without anything to move them on or pull them back, because Spencer looks like he _won’t_ and Ryan _can’t_. But then Spencer swallows, letting his hands drop from Ryan’s arms. Guilt chases over his face, pushing the anger away and, just like that, it’s easy. Ryan can deal with a lot of shit, but he can’t stand the idea that Spencer might look at him and feel bad. He can’t stand things with Spencer being _wrong_. And, even though he’s kind of terrified that it’s going to fuck everything up, he _wants_.

“Fuck,” Spencer says, thickly, and Ryan doesn’t want to hear this. Doesn’t want to hear Spencer _like_ this. “I wasn’t gonna-“

Ryan drops to his knees.

There are sharp, jagged little stones in the dirt that dig in through the fabric of his trousers, and Ryan falls back onto his heels to take the pressure off his knees and spreads his palms flat against his thighs. Above him, he hears Spencer inhale sharply, cutting off whatever he was about to say, but he can’t quite bring himself to look up. He swallows against a suddenly dry throat, and there’s only a slight waver in his voice when he asks, “Do I look pretty?”

“Ryan,” Spencer says, raggedly, and Ryan’s stomach rolls with something that could be apprehension but that he thinks might be arousal, and his mouth waters.

“Spence,” he says, with an edge of quiet desperation that he can’t hide, not from Spencer, because Spencer said, Spencer _said_, and he needs to _know_. Ryan’s never been pretty. “Do I look pretty?”

Spencer’s fingers are warm against his chin, and Ryan’s hands spasm against his thighs because, _fuck_, he’d forgotten about Spencer’s gloves but now, _now_ with the brush of soft leather against his skin, he can’t think about anything else, and his breathing quickens. Spencer tilts his head up, and Ryan lets him, until he’s looking up at Spencer’s face. Spencer’s eyes are dark, hooded, but the corner of his mouth quirks into the hint of a smile, and Ryan lets out a shuddery breath. “Filthy gorgeous,” Spencer says, and he strokes his thumb down the edge of Ryan’s jaw.

Ryan does _not_ fucking whimper.

Spencer sweeps his thumb along Ryan’s jawline again. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks, quietly, and Ryan tips his head to the side, just enough to deepen Spencer’s touch so that he can really _feel_ it.

“You want me,” he says simply, and _fuck_, is it really that easy? Because if it is, Ryan has no fucking idea what he’s been holding out against. Except that Spencer shakes his head, his fingers dropping away from Ryan’s face, and Ryan fights back the urge to grab them back.

Right. This.

“It’s not-“ Spencer starts, and Ryan rolls his eyes, because he _knows_ Spencer; he knows how Spencer thinks, and he knows he’s fighting against that fucking guilt, but he’s thinking himself now. About early morning coffee always bubbling in the pot no matter what time he wakes up, about waffles delivered to his door, about the way his kit is always perfect for the job, and about a Chevy covered in illicit patterns and swirls. He’s thinking, and he’s looking, and he’s seeing, and, okay, maybe he should have done this earlier. He’s doing it now, though, and he knows too.

“It is,” he says decisively, and Spencer flinches. “But it’s not _just_.”

He can feel Spencer watching him. “No,” Spencer allows, eventually. “But you shouldn’t do this for me.”

Ryan shrugs slightly, little more than a roll of his shoulders. “I don’t want to do it for anyone else,” he says, because what else can he say when it’s true. “But I do want to do it.”

That’s true too.

He has no idea what Spencer sees in his face, but it must be enough, because Spencer just nods slowly, and closes his eyes. Ryan thinks this is Spencer being _Spencer_, taking that moment to settle whatever it is he feels needs settling, because when he opens them again, his expression has shifted to something more calculated. He has his game face firmly in place and it makes something pulse low and hot in Ryan’s belly. Spencer steps forward, crowding into Ryan’s space in a way that forces him harder back against his heels, and he has to tip his head right back, baring his throat, to keep Spencer in his line of sight.

“Tell me to stop,” Spencer says, the words low and weighted with something that Ryan doesn’t recognise but that he yearns to hear more of regardless. “Tell me.”

Ryan can’t honestly think of anything he wants less. “No,” he says, and Spencer smiles. Ryan’s heartbeat stutters a little because, _fuck_, Spencer is beautiful when he smiles, but this isn’t a smile Ryan has ever seen before. This one’s barbed, razor-sharp and predatory, and Ryan could hurt himself on that smile. Ryan’s _going_ to hurt himself on that smile and he can’t bring himself to care.

Spencer reaches out to touch his face, his thumb tracing slowly across Ryan’s bottom lip, and Ryan shudders. “Last chance,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “You sure?”

Ryan lets his breath out slowly, carefully. “Yeah,” he says.

Spencer’s thumb slips into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and Ryan lets his mouth fall open just a little. Spencer’s glove has an oddly smooth-rough texture that tastes of leather and oil and Spencer, and the sensation sends a quiver down his spine.

“You are fucking pretty,” Spencer says. “Tell me what you want.” 

Ryan flicks a glance down at Spencer’s crotch, and Spencer laughs, low and smoky. “You can do better than that, Ry. _Tell_ me.”

Fuck, Spencer’s going to make him _ask_. Ryan feels his cheeks flood with heat, which is ridiculous, because he’s hardly some blushing virgin. Then again, he’s never had to ask before. Sex has always just sort of…happened.

“C’mon,” Spencer says, low and almost musical, and Ryan almost groans round his thumb. “You can’t say it, you can’t have it.”

Ryan groans again, although this one is more frustration. “Want,” he says, but it comes out slurred, garbled around Spencer’s thumb, and Spencer pulls his hand free. Ryan’s mouth feels empty.

“Want?” Spencer prompts.

“Want you in my mouth,” Ryan says, too fast, the words all running together like a train wreck, and his cheeks burn, even as his cock jerks in his pants and, fuck, he’s _hard_. He lets his eyes fall closed, and Spencer laughs again.

“You had me,” he points out, tapping his thumb against Ryan’s cheek for emphasis. “Is that all you want?” 

Fucker. Asshole. _Bastard_. Ryan hates him. Ryan hates that he doesn’t hate him. “No,” he says, and fuck, he sounds wrecked already. “Your cock, Spencer.” He breaks off, his own breath sounding funny to his ears, and then adds, for good measure, “Please.”

Spencer smiles at him, secretive and suggestive and pleased, but his eyes are _hungry_, and Ryan feels that heavy gaze on him like a brand. He doesn’t have time to ponder on it through, because Spencer’s undoing his pants, and pulling his cock out, hard and curved and flushed and _beautiful_, and Ryan half-chokes on his own spit. He’s seen Spencer naked before, but not like this. _Never_ like this and he has to take a moment to just look.

He can’t help it. Spencer has a really nice cock, and Ryan can’t _not_ stop to appreciate the aesthetic.

“Not to rush you,” Spencer says, laughter and tension woven together under his words. “But we are on a clock here.”

Ryan just quirks an eyebrow at him, confident and sure in a way that he hasn’t felt all night, and then leans in, wrapping his lips around Spencer. He doesn’t want to fuck around, relaxing his throat and pressing forward, until his nose is nestled in against Spencer’s groin, and he can feel Spencer as a heavy weight on his tongue and in the back of his throat.

Yeah, Ryan’s really not some blushing virgin.

“Fuck,” Spencer breathes. “_Fuck_, Ryan.”

Ryan swallows instinctively, and Spencer jerks, his cock knocking against the back of Ryan’s throat with a sharp sting that makes his eyes water. His hands slide into Ryan’s hair, leather snagging on and pulling loose a few stray hairs, and Ryan groans around the fullness in his mouth.

Spencer’s fingers tighten against his scalp, painful but not unpleasantly so. “Ryan,” Spencer says, again. “I really want to fuck your mouth.”

It’s not a question, not exactly, but Ryan _knows_ Spencer, and this is still asking permission. He nods, as best he can, caught between Spencer’s hands and his cock, and Spencer hums an acknowledgement.

“Keep your hands where they are,” he warns. “Unless you want to stop, then tap my ankle.”

He doesn’t wait for Ryan to answer, just pulls back and then thrusts forward, and Ryan’s jaw twitches as Spencer bumps against the back of his throat again. Ryan’s got no control; Spencer’s fingers tangled in his hair lock him in place, and he slides his thumbs down to dig into Ryan’s jaw and position his mouth exactly as Spencer wants it. The glide of Spencer’s cock in and out of his mouth is entirely at Spencer’s pace and Spencer drags out slow, and snaps back fast, leaving a salty tang on Ryan’s tongue and a biting sting in Ryan’s throat with every push-pull. Ryan’s trying to make it good, fluttering his tongue against Spencer with every thrust, but he’s drooling, wet and slippery, and he can’t really move his mouth. It’s messy and dirty and it should feel overwhelming or degrading or even imprisoning.

It’s hot as fuck, and Ryan shifts his hips surreptitiously, chasing a hint of relief.

Spencer’s rhythm stutters, and his eyes drop half-closed, and his thumbs slip as he tightens his grip in Ryan’s hair. “Not gonna last long,” he says, and Ryan’s not sure if it’s a warning or a promise, but he fucking wants. He still can’t move his head, but he can move his mouth and he hollows his cheeks and sucks.

Spencer shudders, his nails digging into Ryan’s head and his cock twitching against Ryan’s tongue as he comes, and Ryan’s mouth is flooded with a bitter-salty taste. He tries to swallow as much as he can, but there’s too much, and he can feel some of it escaping to dribble down his chin.

Spencer’s fingers flex against his scalp, rubbing small soothing circles that chase away the sting, and he steps away, just enough to let his softening cock slip from Ryan’s mouth, and Ryan’s left gasping, feeling empty, fucked open. Spencer looks down at him, eyes hooded, and he smooths his hand over Ryan’s hair. He trails his fingers down Ryan’s cheek, sweeping through spit and come that he then smears across Ryan’s bottom lip.

“Pretty,” Spencer says, and Ryan groans, his hips rocking forward against nothing but the press of his own trousers. It’s not enough. 

“_Spence_,”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, and his smile is positively wicked as he steps back again, leaving Ryan cold in his wake. “Your turn. Hands.”

Ryan’s reaching up before he even thinks about it, and Spencer catches hold of his wrists, pulling him to his feet before he pushes him back. Ryan staggers, but Spencer doesn’t give him time to catch his balance, propelling him backwards until Ryan crashes into something solid, loses his footing and ends up sprawled on his back across Nadine’s hood.

The car is still warm from the drive, residual heat radiating up against Ryan’s spine, but the metal is night-cool to the touch when Spencer presses his hands down against the hood, with a warning look, that leaves Ryan simultaneously both desperate to obey and itching to rebel. He whimpers despite himself when Spencer pops the button on his pants, tugging down the zipper, and it’s more instinct that intent that has Ryan lifting his hips when Spencer urges him up to tug both his pants and his boxers down to his thighs.

Spencer grins down at him, all heat and amusement, and then holds his leather-clad palm in front of Ryan’s face. “Lick.”

Ryan does, eyes locked with Spencer’s as his tongue slides slippery-smooth over leather that doesn’t just taste of Spencer anymore. He shudders, a full-body jerk, when Spencer pulls his fingers back, reaching down to wrap his hand, firm and wet and sure around Ryan’s cock. He was already pretty fucking worked up and this, it feels good, it feels really _good_. Then Spencer moves, sliding his fist down and then back up in one tight movement that ends with him circling his palm roughly over the head of Ryan’s cock, and it feels fucking _amazing_. Ryan eyes slide closed, and he drops his head back, harder than he’d meant to, to knock painfully against the metal of the hood behind him.

“_Fuck_,” he gasps out, and he hears Spencer’s laugh.

“Wanted to,” he says, his voice low and sweet, seeping like syrup into Ryan’s awareness, and Ryan squirms. “Thought about it. Thought about how pretty you’d look, all spread out and needy like this across the hood of one of our gorgeous girls. Wanted to open you up, take my time, take you apart and then just fucking _take_ you. Get you all dirty and make a mess.”

“_Spencer_,” Ryan bites out, because he can _see_ it, and it’s hot as _fuck_, even the idea enough to make Ryan feel like he’s going to burn up from the inside out. He wants that: Spencer’s touch, Spencer’s mouth, everything Spencer’s willing to give him, and the rest as well. His fingers scrabble uselessly against the smooth metal underneath him, and it does nothing to dampen the fire that feels like it’s coursing through his veins. “_Please_.”

“No time,” Spencer groans, and the heat in his eyes is scorching, although the twist and drag of his hold on Ryan’s cock never falters. “Next time, I promise.”

Ryan thrusts up into Spencer’s hold at that; the suggestion that this isn’t it, the promise of _more_ enough to send a thrill down his spine that pools in his groin, heightening every sensation at every spot where Spencer is touching him. Spencer leans in, close enough that his hair tickles against Ryan’s cheek, and the quick brush of his lips is a damp promise on Ryan’s face.

“Want to see you come,” Spencer murmurs in his ear, and Ryan’s fucking _panting_, his blood roaring in his ears and not enough air in his lungs. “Want to see you fall apart for me.”

“Spence,” Ryan bites out again, and Spencer gives a satisfied hum, twisting his wrist on the upstroke in a way that sends sparks firing down Ryan’s spine. His mouth falls open on a gasp, and Spencer drags his teeth down Ryan’s jaw, leaving a hot trail with his breath across Ryan’s skin that tingles like a scald. 

“Pretty boy,” Spencer growls against his lips, and Ryan’s arches up helplessly, his hips stuttering against Spencer’s twisting rhythm. “Come on, pretty, come for me.”

Ryan does. He snaps up taut, his mouth falling open wordlessly as his orgasm sears through him; a hot tingle that starts in his toes and roars up his veins. It makes his ears ring and his vision dance as he clutches desperately at Spencer, his fingers tangling in the soft cotton of Spencer’s shirt.

He loses himself in the sensations for a moment; the crashing waves of pleasure that wash over him and blindside him, and it feels like he might black out, just for a few seconds. When he comes back to himself, he’s twisted round; half-still balanced on the car, half wrapped around Spencer, who is largely underneath him and watching him with laughing eyes, his thumb rubbing a soothing repetitive motion across Ryan’s throat. It’s nice, and Ryan shifts against Spencer’s warmth, making them both slide a little down the hood.

“Don’t get jizz on the car,” Spencer warns, and Ryan hums muzzily, patting a clumsy reassurance against Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer groans, just an edge of theatricality, and he catches Ryan’s fingers in his own.

“Are you always this useless after an orgasm?” he asks, voice balanced on a laugh, and Ryan stops, thinks about it for a second, and then just nods, because his skin is still fizzing and he feels like he’s flying and, really, that is pretty useless, all things considered.

“Right,” Spencer says, “Okay. Up.” He pulls back, keeping his fingers tangled with Ryan’s so that he can take Ryan with him, until they’re both standing, or at least, Spencer is standing. Ryan is prepared to acknowledge that he might be more leaning than standing. Whatever, he doesn’t care. Spencer’s warm and he smells really fucking good from here. He’s vaguely aware of Spencer tidying him up, tucking him away and pulling his clothes back into place, and he pats Spencer’s arm again in an unspoken thank you.

Spencer’s so good at looking out for him.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Get in the fucking car, Ryan,” he says, fondly, and he pushes Ryan, not unkindly, toward his door. Ryan stumbles, a little, his limbs still not properly co-ordinated, and half-steps, half-falls into his seat as Spencer slips in behind the wheel. Nadine roars to life under Spencer’s touch, and Ryan reaches out to pat her dashboard mindlessly. He loves this fucking car.

Spencer snorts. “Keep it together, Ryan,” he says, not without amusement. “At least until we finish the job.”

Ryan waves him off wordlessly. He can totally do this. He’s a fucking professional.

He’s just going to close his eyes for a second.

*****

Brendon’s fucking delighted. He laughs for five minutes straight when he finds Ryan asleep in the passenger seat of a boosted car. He claims there are photographs, and Spencer smacks him round the back of the head.

Ryan just flips him off. He’s not worried; Brendon’s full of shit and they both know Zack would fucking kill him if there was any kind of evidence trail on a job.

Besides, he’s pretty sure Spencer wouldn’t let him. If Ryan trusted nothing else in this gig, he’d still believe that Spencer had his back.

*****

There’s a moment after Spencer brings him home and leads him upstairs, making a beeline for Ryan’s bedroom, that Ryan hesitates. Because, here, alongside his shitty old couch and under his shitty lights in the middle of his shitty apartment, he feels like he’s thinking clearly for the first time in a while and it all feels a little unreal. Or perhaps painfully _real_ in a way that the desert hadn’t been, Ryan isn’t sure. He wonders, stumbling to a halt in the middle of the room, whether they’re going to regret this, whatever _this_ is (and Ryan’s very fucking aware that they haven’t really defined it yet), whether Spencer is _already_ regretting it, whether he _should_ be, whether _Ryan_ should be…

Ryan’s already all in, he knows that. He wants this. He really fucking _wants_ this, but if Spencer doesn’t, well. He can’t lose Spencer.

“I can hear you thinking,” Spencer says dryly, and he turns, leaning against the bedroom doorframe and fixes Ryan with a knowing look. “Sleep now, Ross. Freak out tomorrow,” 

Ryan would argue that he’s not freaking out, he’s _contemplating_ but then Spencer crooks one finger imperiously, his mouth curling up into a smile that’s edged with a whole new promise and heavy with suggestion and Ryan steps forward before he has time to think about.

Spencer still wants to smile at him. Maybe that’s going to be enough.

“Bed,” Spencer says, and his smile doesn’t slip but it isn’t a request. Ryan squeezes past him into the room, and he can’t bring himself to regret a goddamn thing when Spencer’s hand comes to rest, warm and comfortingly heavy in the small of his back.

Right then, just for that one beautiful moment, he’s certain that they’ll be absolutely fine.

*****

“She doesn’t run,” Zack warns, and Ryan waves him off distractedly, because he can’t take his eyes off her and he doesn’t care. She’s beautiful – battered and dented, her paintwork an ugly orange that’s been badly patched in dirty, off colour splotches and her hubcaps mismatched, but under that, _under that_, Ryan can see sleek lines and graceful curves. He can see _promise_, and he traces one hand reverently along her side.

She’s beautiful and she’s his. His own Nadine.

“She’s perfect,” he says, simply, and Zack rolls his eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, but without any real bite, and he nods toward the workbench to Ryan’s right. “Keys are on there. Keep her out of the way, and don’t forget why you’re really here.”

“I won’t,” Ryan says, because he probably should, and Zack snorts, turning back to the rest of the workshop with a mutter under his breath that sounds suspiciously like he’s insulting Ryan’s mental faculties. 

Ryan can’t bring himself to care, because the car in front of him is more than enough to hold his attention. He draws a slow breath and reaches out carefully, letting his fingers trace meaningless designs across her hood as he catalogues every dent and bruise, every rough patch. There’s a step behind him, and then warm arms slide around his waist.

“Should I be jealous?” Spencer asks, the edge of a laugh in the question that wraps around Ryan like a blanket, complementing the weight of Spencer’s touch, and he shakes his head, leaning back into Spencer’s warmth.

“No,” he says, “She had me first. If anything, she should be jealous of you.”

“Liar,” Spencer says, and the confidence in his tone makes something in Ryan’s chest flutter. “You were always mine.”

Ryan doesn’t even consider denying it. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I was.”

Spencer’s mouth curls into a smile against his hair, and Ryan smooths his hand over Nadine’s bodywork again. 

“What are you going to do with her?” Spencer says, his fingers slipping down to toy with Ryan’s waistband, and this time it’s Ryan who smiles.

“Show her she’s pretty,” he says, and he knows Spencer _gets it_ from the way his hold tightens.


End file.
